Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m back from parole. How did I do?’

‘Let’s not make it a regular date, my heart couldn’t take it.’

Rebus smiled, picked up a phone. He wanted to check his machine at home, see if Ancram had plans for him. He did: nine tomorrow morning. There was another message. It was from Kayleigh Burgess. She needed to talk with him.

‘I’m seeing someone in Morningside at three, so how about four at that big hotel in Bruntsfield? We can have afternoon tea.’ She said it was important. Rebus decided to go out there and wait. He’d have preferred to leave Jack behind...

‘Know what, Jack? You’re severely cramping my style.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘With women. There’s one I want to see, but I bet you’re going to tag along, aren’t you?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’ll wait outside the door if you like.’

‘It’ll be a comfort to know you’re there.’

‘It could be worse,’ stuffing his face with the last of the pizza, ‘just think, how do Siamese twins arrange their love lives?’

‘Some questions are best left unanswered,’ Rebus said.

He thought: Good question though.

It was a nice hotel, quietly upmarket. Rebus worked out a possible dialogue in his head. Ancram knew about the clippings in his kitchen, and Kayleigh was the only possible source. He’d been furious at the time, less angry now. It was her job after all: information, and using that information to elicit other information. It still rankled. Then there was the Spaven-McLure connection: Ancram had picked up on it; Kayleigh knew about it. And finally, above all, there was the break-in.

They waited for her in the lounge. Jack flicked through Scottish Field and kept reading out descriptions of estates for sale: ‘seven thousand acres in Caithness, with hunting lodge, stabling, and working farm’. He looked up at Rebus.

‘Some country this, eh? Where else could you lay your hands on seven thousand acres at knockdown prices?’

‘There’s a theatre group called 7:84 — know what it means?’

‘What?’

‘Seven per cent of the population controls eighty-four per cent of the wealth.’

‘Are we in the seven?’

Rebus snorted. ‘Not even close, Jack.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a taste of the high life, though.’

‘At what cost?’

‘Eh?’

‘What would you be willing to trade?’

‘No, I mean like winning the lottery or something.’

‘So you wouldn’t take back-handers to drop a charge?’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Come on, Jack. I was in Glasgow, remember? I saw good suits and jewellery, I saw something approaching the smug.’

‘They just like to dress nice, makes them feel important.’

‘Uncle Joe’s not doling out freebies?’

‘I wouldn’t know if he was.’ Jack lifted the magazine to shield his face: matter closed. And then Kayleigh Burgess walked in through the door.

She saw Rebus immediately, and a blush started creeping up her neck. By the time she’d walked over to where he was rising from his chair, it had climbed as far as her cheeks.

‘Inspector, you got my message.’ Rebus nodded, eyes unblinking. ‘Well, thanks for coming.’ She turned to Jack Morton.

‘DI Morton,’ Jack said, shaking her hand.

‘Do you want some tea?’

Rebus shook his head, gestured towards the free chair. She sat down.

‘So?’ he said, determined to make nothing easy for her, not ever again.

She sat with her shoulder-bag in her lap, twisting the strap. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ She glanced up at him, then away, took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell CI Ancram about those cuttings. Or about Fergus McLure knowing Spaven, come to that.’

‘But you know he knows?’

She nodded. ‘Eamonn told him.’

‘And who told Eamonn?’

‘I did. I didn’t know what to make of it... I wanted to bounce it off someone. We’re a team, so I told Eamonn. I made him promise it’d go no further.’

‘But it did.’

She nodded. ‘He was straight on the phone to Ancram. See, Eamonn... he’s got a thing about police brass. If we’re investigating someone at Inspector level, Eamonn always wants to go over their heads, talk to their superiors, see what gets stirred up. Besides, you haven’t exactly made a favourable impression with my presenter.’

‘It was an accident,’ Rebus said. ‘I tripped.’

‘If that’s your story.’

‘What does the footage say?’

She thought about it. ‘We were shooting from behind Eamonn. Mostly, what we’ve got is his back.’

‘I’m off the hook then?’

‘I didn’t say that. Just stick to your story.’

Rebus nodded, getting her drift. ‘Thanks. But why did Breen go to Ancram? Why not my boss?’

‘Because Eamonn knew Ancram was to lead the inquiry.’

‘And how did he know that ?’

‘The grapevine.’

A grapevine with few grapes attached. He saw Jim Stevens again, staring up at the window of his flat... Stirring it...

Rebus sighed. ‘One last thing. Do you know anything about a break-in at my flat?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Should I?’

‘Remember the Bible John stuff in the cupboard? Someone took a crowbar to my front door, and all they wanted was to rifle through it.’

She was shaking her head. ‘Not us.’

‘No?’

‘Housebreaking? We’re journalists, for Christ’s sake.’

Rebus had his hands up in a gesture of appeasement, but he wanted to push it a little further. ‘Any chance Breen would go out on a limb?’

Now she laughed. ‘Not even for a story the size of Watergate. Eamonn fronts the programme, he doesn’t do any digging.’

‘You and your researchers do?’

‘Yes, and neither of them seems the crowbar type. Does that leave me in the frame?’

As she crossed one leg over the other, Jack studied them. His eyes had been running all over her like a kid’s over a Scalextric set.

‘Consider the matter closed,’ Rebus said.

‘But it’s true? Your flat was broken into?’

‘Matter closed,’ he repeated.

She almost pouted. ‘How’s the inquiry going anyway?’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m not snooping, call it personal interest.’

‘Depends which inquiry you mean,’ Rebus said.

‘The Spaven case.’

‘Oh, that.’ Rebus sniffed, considering his response. ‘Well, CI Ancram is the trusting sort. He has real faith in his officers. If you plead innocent, he’ll take it at face value. It’s a comfort to have superiors like that. For instance, he trusts me so much he’s got a minder on me like a limpet on a rock.’ He nodded towards Jack. ‘Inspector Morton here is supposed to not let me out of his sight. He even sleeps at my flat.’ He held Kayleigh’s gaze. ‘How’s that sound?’

She could hardly form the words. ‘It’s scandalous.’

Rebus shrugged, but she was reaching into her bag, bringing out notebook and pen. Jack glowered at Rebus, who winked back. Kayleigh had to flick through a lot of pages to find a fresh sheet.

‘When did this start?’ she said.

‘Let’s see...’ Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘Sunday afternoon, I think. After I’d been interrogated in Aberdeen and dragged back here.’

She looked up. ‘Interrogated?’

‘John...’ Jack Morton warned.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. ‘I’m a suspect in the Johnny Bible case.’

On the drive back to the flat, Jack was furious.

‘What did you think you were up to?’

‘Keeping her mind off Spaven.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘She’s trying to make a programme about Spaven, Jack. She’s not doing one on policemen being nasty to other policemen, and she’s not doing one on Johnny Bible.’